


Problem in Aisle Ten

by tweedymcgee



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Crack, F/M, Humor, Hypnotism, Mental Instability, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedymcgee/pseuds/tweedymcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Meat and fat, hot and wet, pink sliced, salt and cream, bones and skin, red red center, chewy and sweet and sticky and mine. Bacon. No bacon. Out of bacon. Faugh." He spat, and shoved the shopping list into a pocket, for later delectation.</em>
</p><p>A response to an Anon Meme prompt on best_enemies: "The Master smells Donna's Doctorishness, assumes she's one of the Doctor's future regenerations, and attempts to seduce her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Problem in Aisle Ten

The Master clutched the precious slip of paper in his sweaty hand like a lifeline. He'd written it in one of his saner moments. It would save him. Yes. He pulled his hoodie down over his face, reading and re-reading it, eyes flicking back and forth over the shakily-drawn whorls and spirals, muttering incantation and prophecy.

"Meat and fat, hot and wet, pink sliced, salt and cream, bones and skin, red red center, chewy and sweet and sticky and mine. Bacon. No bacon. Out of bacon. Faugh." He spat, and shoved the shopping list into a pocket, for later delectation.

The cashier cast a nervous eye at the contents of the man's shopping cart: a crate of Pot Noodle, seventeen pints of ice cream, three whole turkeys, a Sunday roast, eight pounds of bologna and an avalanche of Jammie Dodgers.

"Cash or charge?" he asked.

The Master cocked his head like a lizard.

"Sir?"

The Master drummed his fingers against the moving conveyor belt. _Ta ta ta tum. Ta ta ta tum._

"Sir? How will you be paying?"

"Paying." The Master liked that word. His tongue flicked across his grinning lips. "Oh, I think so. Yes. Paying. We'll do that. Won't we. We are going to pay and pay and pay and PAY."

The cashier, his face ashen, eyed the intercom button. Several customers abandoned their carts and scurried for the exit.

"Of all the train wrecks to get stuck behind on a Sunday afternoon with one flipping register open," said an irritated voice from the queue behind the Master. "You in the hoodie. Oi. Get a move on."

The Master turned, a motion too fast for a human eye to follow, and fixed his gaze on the woman who stood behind her shopping cart like a centurion at a chariot, eyes blazing. Red hair. Red like a flag, like a banner.

Then he smelled her.

For a moment his face went slack, the taut cables in his neck relaxing. He looked almost wistful. "Doctor," he muttered.

The cashier made the fatal mistake of assuming that he was now in less danger because the Master wasn't looking at him. He pushed the intercom button. "Security, we've got a problem in Aisle --"

He never finished the sentence. With one leap, the Master bounded to the top of a mighty tower of tinned mushy peas, blasting lethal rays in all directions.

A terrible silence fell over the supermarket. Grey skulls grinned from behind cash registers. Skeletal figures stood frozen in the aisles, still reaching for tins and boxes.

Donna stared blankly. "What?" she squeaked. "What?"

He stretched out a glowing, crackling hand toward her.

"Oh, no you don't, mister," she growled. Just in time, she seized an aluminium pie pan from her shopping cart, deflecting the blast the Master had aimed straight at her heart, and taking out a tastefully arranged pyramid of pineapples across the room.

The Master leaped off his tower of peas and landed at her feet, crouching, all his manic energy spent.

"Hurts. It _huuuuuurts_ ," he muttered. "Can't you hear it? The noise, the noise."

"Only noise I hear is you wittering on," said Donna, kneeling down to come face to face with the hooded stranger, somewhat against her better judgment. She shouldn't feel sorry for him. He'd just fried two dozen Tesco shoppers to a crisp. But there was something about him. Poor bloke. He looked like a lost kitten.

"Listen, listen," he said, taking her hand and pressing it to his face. " _Listen_."

Donna thought she heard something, just for a second. A rhythm, like a heartbeat. She reached toward the Master, cradling his face in both hands, listening harder. He closed his eyes and butted his forehead into the palm of her hand, leaning closer, transfixed by the scent rising from between her breasts. She smelled like ozone and ginger biscuits, wind through fir boughs and the smoke of battle. "Doctor," he moaned.

"Of course. Of course, you need a doctor. Don't worry, luv, we'll get you sorted," she said, patting his cheek. Broadmoor couldn't be more than a ten-pound cab ride away.

The Master opened his eyes. "Hungry," he said, softly, twining a lock of her hair around and around his fingers, his hands moving smoothly and rhythmically. Around and around. Winding, unwinding. His voice was taking on rich and silky tones. "Hungry, so hungry, so much wanting, yes, hot and burning, going deeper, deeper, falling, slowly falling, deeper and deeper..."

Donna's pupils dilated, her eyes swallowed in blackness. Gorgeous. The Master could hardly breathe, looking into those eyes, so dark with yearning. He couldn't believe it was working so easily. The Doctor had never succumbed so fast before.

Well, maybe the first time. Theta had always been rather suggestible.

"Master," she breathed, leaning toward him. He clutched at her and toppled backwards onto the floor with Donna on top of him. And then her mouth was on his, hot and sweet and urgent. They clawed at each other's clothes, both of them aching with arousal, choking on homesickness.

A commanding voice echoed in the aisle. "WHAT."

Donna and the Master broke away from a fervent kiss, breathing hard, hair mussed. The Master's eyes focused on the nearest object: a pair of red chucks, inches from his face. They appeared to be connected to a pair of legs in pinstriped trousers. He followed the pinstripes upward til his gaze met with a pair of smoldering eyes.

"Er," said the Master, quailing under the Doctor's stony glare. "Um, you see..."

Donna's pupils had resumed their natural size. She sat up, dazed. "Tinned pumpkin, pie crust, condensed milk. Right." She got to her feet, unsteady, and wandered off down the aisle. The Doctor turned his head and gazed after her for a long moment, his face a picture of wretchedness.

He turned back to the Master, suddenly grim again. "You," said the Doctor, "outside. Now."


End file.
